Dawn of the Golden Promise (7 page)

Michael and Sara Burke were the first to shake Evan's hand after the ceremony, although Sara hung back for a moment before adding her good wishes to Michael's. For her, the proceedings had been fraught with emotion. In fact, the intensity of her response surprised her.

She had witnessed such incredible change in the lives of Evan and Nora Whittaker since that day on the Manhattan docks when they first arrived in New York—frightened, ailing immigrants who had left home and country for the promise of America. In scarcely more than three years, the two had endured illness and tragedy, broken dreams and grievous loss. Struggle and suffering had marked their experience of the United States in ways no one could have foreseen.

Yet through it all Evan and Nora had believed in America's promise, had clung to that dream and to their God's faithfulness. And today, in spite of overwhelming obstacles and reverses, the promise had been fulfilled beyond their dreams.

Today Sara realized that the promise had not been for Evan and Nora alone, but for the children of New York City as well. Like a shining, golden gift, Whittaker House held forth the possibility of hope to those who had known little but despair in their young lives. Just as America offered the hope of survival and a better life to untold thousands of immigrants, this large, solid brick building extended the hope of survival and a better life to the unloved, forgotten children of New York.

Hope.
Surely the word itself was one of the loveliest songs of the human heart.

Blinking back tears, she watched Michael put a hand to Evan's shoulder. “A grand day, Evan,” he said, grinning broadly. “You and Sara's father have done a remarkable job.”

Evan shook his head. “
Mr. Farmington
has d-done a remarkable job—he and the Lord. I'm still rather stunned b-by it all, I m-must confess.”

“It's such a wonderful idea, Evan,” Sara said, smiling at his characteristic self-effacement. “It must give you great joy to see your dream finally become reality.”

He looked at her. “But it wasn't
m-my
dream, you know. Whittaker House was God's idea, not m-mine. I would never have had the boldness to conceive of anything so m-marvelous.”

Sara studied the lean-faced Englishman's honest features and knew he meant what he said. Yet she, like many others, had come to see a facet of Evan's character that apparently eluded him: a spirit that would always champion those in need, a nobility that, despite impossible odds or self-sacrifice, would somehow manage to persevere.

Perhaps this very trait made Evan Whittaker such an ideal instrument of God's grace. For truly, this humble man had become a source of blessing to many—not only his own family and circle of friends, but especially to those young souls who seemed to matter to no one else: the city's homeless, unwanted children.

“Well, whoever conceived it, it's an extraordinary idea,” she said. “And you must know Father believes in this venture with all his heart, the way he's supported you in it.”

“Even though he's still grinding his teeth over losing you from the shipyards,” Michael put in. “He hasn't quite come to grips with it yet.”

“Father says that's his own private sacrifice for the public good,” Sara told Evan, smiling at the faint flush of pleasure that stole over his features. “He also says that Whittaker House will be filled to overflowing in no time, but he's hoping the idea will catch on throughout the city and lead to the opening of other shelters. Obviously, you can't begin to meet the demand that already exists.”

Evan's eyes clouded. “I know. Why, we've taken in five children just this week—and that's in addition to B-Billy.”

Sara nodded, glancing at little Billy Hogan, who stood at the bottom of the steps with another small boy. Both were eating cookies as they studied each other with measuring looks.

“The lad has bloomed under your care,” Michael said. “It's good to see him looking like a normal little boy instead of a whipped pup.”

“He's a wonderful b-boy,” Evan said. “And I think he
is
happy with us. But he frets in the worst way over his younger b-brothers.”

“I thought one of the immigrant societies was helping Billy's family,” Sara said.

Evan nodded. “They are. And I think for the most part they're m-managing well. But Billy is concerned about what will happen if Sorley Dolan should be released from prison.”

Sara shuddered. The memory of the merciless physical abuse Dolan had inflicted on the child was still all too fresh. Dolan, who had passed himself off as Billy's uncle—though he wasn't actually related to the boy at all—had almost killed little Billy with his violent beatings and forced starvation.

“I can't believe they would even
consider
letting that barbarian out of jail!” she said, turning to Michael. “Surely he'll be locked up for a long time.”

Michael's expression darkened. “Don't count on it, Sara. It's a wonder he's been held as long as he has. With the jail cells packed as they are these days, there's many a sentence being cut short.”

“Well, I should hope Sorley Dolan's won't be one of them,” Sara said firmly.

Evan Whittaker's gaze went to the boys standing at the bottom of the steps. “Yes,” he said quietly. “So d-do I.”

Again Sara turned to her husband. “Michael, there must be something you can do to make sure Dolan isn't set free.”

He looked at her, then shrugged. “A policeman has no influence in the courts, Sara. You know that. And the truth is, there's no room for even half the felons we haul in. Why, if we opened ten jails tomorrow, they'd be jammed to the walls in a day, every one of them. The situation is out of control.”

Sara shook her head in disgust. “It seems to me the entire
city
is out of control.”

“Most of the police force would agree,” he admitted.

Sara saw his eyes suddenly go hard as his attention shifted to the other side of the street. “I expect we can thank the likes of blighters like her husband for much of the madness,” he bit out, jerking his head in the direction of his gaze.

Frowning, Sara turned to look. On the opposite side of the street stood Alice Walsh, seemingly absorbed in a conversation with her children. Isabel Walsh, a rather thickset girl who looked dreadfully overdressed in a yellow ruffled frock, and Henry, a thin-faced boy with thick spectacles, stood on either side of their mother. Both seemed to be talking at once.

Evan, too, looked in Alice Walsh's direction. “I suppose,” he said, “there is no disputing her husband's reputation. But as for M-Mrs. Walsh herself—I cannot say enough good things about her.”

Michael nodded, but his tone was grudging. “Aye, Sara thinks well of the woman, too. She does seem a decent sort, but how do you account for her getting mixed up with an animal like Walsh?”

Sara heard the old, familiar animosity in his tone. It was always like this. The slightest mention of Patrick Walsh would ignite the spark of anger in his eyes and bring an edge of bitterness to his voice.

Sometimes she feared Michael had made the destruction of Patrick Walsh his life's work, to the exclusion of all else. She was convinced that he had even put aside his political ambitions, at least for the time being, because of his obsession with Walsh.

When she tried to talk to him about it, he only pretended to listen. He evaded her questions, and made light of her misgivings. Even though Walsh had been directly responsible for the brutal attack on Michael's son, Tierney—and the boy's forced exile to Ireland—Michael invariably denied Sara's suggestions that his fixation on Walsh might be excessive.

Yet Sara knew beyond the slightest doubt that Michael had set the entire force of his will to achieving one goal: to bring Patrick Walsh to justice. And he would not stop until he had accomplished his aim.

Despite the scorching temperature of the day, Sara shivered. She could not help but wonder whether Patrick Walsh was aware of Michael's enmity. And if he was, what ends might he go to in order to thwart him?

Alice Walsh was only half listening to Isabel's complaints about the heat and Henry's criticism of the structural design of Whittaker House. Her thoughts kept darting back to the events of the day.

She was so pleased for Evan Whittaker and what this new venture was going to mean to the homeless children throughout the city. She longed to cross the street and congratulate him, but, seeing him in the company of Sara Burke and her husband, she decided against it.

Sara would be cordial, of course; she was unfailingly gracious, even friendly, when they met. But the captain…

Alice bit her lip, all too aware of what to expect from Captain Burke. The forced smile, the grudging concession to a polite greeting, followed by the fixed look that stopped just short of open disdain. It was always the same. She sensed that Captain Burke's reaction to her was kindled by his hostility toward Patrick, and his silent disapproval hurt.

She didn't understand the enmity between the policeman and her husband. Only lately had she begun to suspect that she might not want to understand. She felt a growing apprehension about the cause of the deep-seated animosity between the two men; indeed, she had found herself unwilling to probe too deeply, for fear of what she might discover.

Worse still, whenever she thought of the situation at all, she automatically blamed her husband, as if the fault were entirely his. There had been a time when it would have been virtually impossible for her to blame Patrick for
anything.
The fact that she did so now, and did it so readily, troubled her with a sense of guilt she could not easily dismiss.

In his hotel office nearby, Patrick Walsh glared once more at the letter in his hand, then crumpled it and tossed it into the ashtray on the corner of the desk. He struck a match, and in seconds the letter had burned to ashes.

The little fool!
What in the world was she thinking of, writing him a threatening letter! As if threats from the likes of her would intimidate him.

He regretted his carelessness, certainly. There had been too many champagne dinners at her flat, too many late nights, entirely too little regard for the usual caution. He had been altogether too nonchalant, and it wouldn't happen again.

He should have known the little tramp would try to trap him. She wanted money, of course. That's what the line about “asking nothing for herself but a secure future for the baby” was all about. Clearly, she was going to try to take him for a bundle.

Well, she was in for a big disappointment. She would get nothing from him—only enough to help with the doctor bills. Not a penny more.

He walked to the window and looked out on the sultry summer afternoon, thinking about the last time they had been together. Ruth had wept violently when he said goodbye. She always did, always begged him to stay longer. Sometimes he gave in, but not that night.

Even before then, he had been growing impatient with her transparent efforts to ensnare him, to coax some kind of a serious commitment from him. At first he had been merely amused by her feeble attempts at entrapment. Eventually, though, he had wearied of her whining and spent less and less time at her flat when he was in town.

Once he learned she was pregnant, he ended it. At least he thought he had.